In the beginning a voice cried in the nothingness,and nothingness became,then things went boom,back to back those two,creator and destroyer,And breathing over the watersthe preserver wandered -or so the stories go.

They meander,our stories,we weave them in in some formor another,creator, preserver, destroyer –things begin,things last for a time,things go boom.How red the blood,dripping dropby lone dropto scatter in the windas they weave their dance,a seed to bloom to wither,and then to seed.

Taking a deep breath,I ponder how we weave the tales -I think of Siddhartha sitting by the river,and those who wandered across the desert,and blood on a cross,and Schrodinger’s catand the eyes of a dying woman.

Staring at the wasteland before meI bat away the flickering shapes -specters, ghosts, goblinscrawling in the midday heat -their stories get old.